


Everyone Needs A Hobby

by DixieDale



Category: Happy Days
Genre: NOT PG13, sexual situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Maybe Howard Cunningham was right - maybe his wife Marion DID need a hobby.  He intended to think of a few possibilities to suggest, but it turns out that wasn't necessary.  Though she never discussed it with him - how a chance encounter with a Chinese silk robe led to her new-found passion for gardening - it didn't really matter to Howard anyway. After all, gardening was a safe, respectable hobby, and it kept her from fussing over how much time he spent on the golf course or at the Lodge or attending to any of HIS more masculine hobbies.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Everyone Needs A Hobby

Marion Cunningham was what she considered to be a typical American housewife. She maintained a nice home, had raised two fine children, was an understanding wife to a husband preoccupied with his business and golf game and other things men busied themselves with. She sang in the church choir, volunteered here and there, considered herself contented enough, but sometimes wondered if her husband wasn't right - maybe she DID need a hobby. 

Well, even as busy as she kept herself, there were several patches of empty hours that seemed somehow wasted. Yes, she really needed to find something to fill her empty hours, find a rewarding hobby she could be enthusiastic about. 

But, in the meantime, she needed to go tend the small apartment they rented out over their garage. It wouldn't take long, and it was something to do, and they'd struck that deal with the current tenant. Actually, Howard had quietly insisted on it. 

"Marion, I don't want that apartment destroyed by any shennanigans," he'd said. "You know how fast neglect can take its toll; it won't take much of your time, and we can be sure our investment is protected. Once a month should do it."

She'd started to put the stack of fresh bedding on the shelf when she saw it. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, and she thought the one Howard had bought her for their first anniversary had been lovely! Of course, that robe had been pale blue cotton, but it HAD had creamy blue lace at the neckline and the sleeves. She had saved it even after it had gotten a little shabby, finally used some of the fabric to make a little pinafore for Joanie to use when she played with her fingerpaints.

This, though, wasn't cotton. No, it was silk, or something very like that, a long shimmering cream delight, with large amber and gold flowers, roses, each rose highlighted with fragile red threads at the center, and turquoise and royal purple and metallic blue butterflies and dragonflies darting here and there. Long wide sleeves draped down gracefully, and the wide tie was pleated in the most intricate fashion.

She touched one of the sleeves, unable to resist its allure. The material caught at her hand, and she quickly pulled it away, not wanting to damage the fabric. She'd forgotten her gloves while doing the spring cleaning and then the weeding, and the rose-scented handcream just hadn't done the trick, no matter what the sales lady had promised when she'd convinced Marion to lay down the equivalent of a pound of coffee for the tiny jar.

Reluctantly she backed away and let the curtain fall back into place. 

She wasn't really snooping, she told herself; it was her regular day of the month to give the apartment over the garage a good turning out - laundry collected from the bin in the corner, three fresh sets of sheets and a spare coverlet deposited on the shelf in the small closet hidden only by that fabric drape, towels and wash cloths on the rack in the bathroom - enough to last for a changing every week til she came up here again to tend the rental apartment for their tenant.

Their tenant - though it made her smile fondly to think of the young man as such a business-like entity - liked things clean and neat, no matter the rough-and-tough leather-clad image he portrayed elsewhere. Here he transformed into someone else, at least a little bit, someone a trifle awkward sometimes, that appreciative smile one he would never have shown anyone else, anyone who he spent so much time swaggering around. Older than her own children, yes, and in many ways other than age. But still, there was a hidden reserve, what she thought of as a shy vulnerability, that touched her heart.

Well, actually it touched more than her heart, but she quite brisky slapped down that other part, reminded it she was a happily married woman with almost-grown children, a woman much older than the young man with the engaging smile. She had never put much stock in such silliness, anyway. No matter what the novels might claim, she knew how things were between a man and a woman, and she thought it was just foolish to make so much out of something so incidental. She rather thought that rebellious little part of her was rather like an appendix, something left over by nature, something no longer needed in the modern world, but not quite eliminated yet.

She finished her work, stopping back by the closet twice more to gently stroke that lovely Chinese robe, before leaving to go back to her own house, her own routine.

Over the next few weeks she found herself altering her routine, at least as far as the apartment was concerned. Away from that once-a-month general cleaning and bringing of fresh linens and towels and things. Now it was a weekly turning-out, each time telling herself that, since she had the time, it was only right she should give a little extra attention to that addition over their garage.

Somehow, each time she let herself back into that apartment, she found a reason to pull that curtain aside, to let her eyes feast on that silken wonder. When her hands had become less rough, she'd allowed herself the pleasure of stroking the material - oh, only once each visit - well, maybe twice. Just in appreciation; it seemed almost rude not to show some appreciation for such a beautiful thing! More would have been improper somehow, she told herself firmly, when she felt the urge to return "just one more time" before she left after each visit. Though she did wonder, just a bit wistful, at which of the various young women their tenant was seen in the company of had the privilege of wearing that lovely thing!

Then the morning came when she reluctantly pulled her hand back from that gorgeous fabric, and realized she was not alone. That voice came from nowhere, low enough it didn't startle her nearly as much as it could have, but still made her snatch her hand back guiltily.

"Hey, Mrs. C," the young man offered, watching her from under lowered eyelids.

"Arthur! I didn't know you were here," she said, trying to put her familiar semi-maternal smile on her face, in her eyes. She had a sinking feeling that she wasn't doing all that good a job at it, feeling how hot and flushed her cheeks must be. She was intruding on his privacy; she'd known that before, but had avoided facing that reality. Now there was no choice, not when he was standing there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.

Watching her. There was something different about the way he was looking at her - a certain satisfaction, perhaps anticipation.

"I knew you'd like it. That's why I bought it. The first time I saw it, I knew it was meant for you, Mrs. C," and that smile - ah, that smile was NOTHING like any he'd ever shared with her before. Nothing like ANYONE had ever shared with her before.

She felt her breath seize in her lungs, and she licked her suddenly-dry lips. Swallowing heavily she forced out the words.

"For me? But it's nothing like me, Arthur. It's beautiful and elegant and exotic." She forced a tiny laugh of regret. "I'm the pale blue cotton type of woman. That's not a bad thing to be, of course, but I'm not . . ." and her eyes went back to the creamy expanse of that silky robe with its entrancing flowers and butterflies before returning to face their above-the-garage resident.

The knowledge in those dark eyes shocked her, along with that deep chuckle. "A lotta women got a little of the exotic inside, Mrs. C, even if most don't have the courage to let themselves see it. You, you've got more than most. Don't you want to see what she looks like, that side of you? Don't you want to know what it feels like, to BE that exotic woman?"

She stood frozen, caught up in his words, the look he was giving her. He stepped closer, reached past her, taking that creamy wonder from the hanger. Somehow she then found herself taking that silky robe he was handing her.

"I won't watch; go on, try it on. Look at yourself in the mirror, see that other side of you," he urged, his voice no longer the Arthur Fonzarelli she had thought of almost as another son. No, that voice didn't stir anything maternal, that she knew for certain.

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she tucked herself into the shadows of the bathroom, wishing it had a door on it, and hesitantly slipped out of her housedress and into the silky robe. She was just tying the belt, turning to come back into the single room of the tiny apartment, to look in the pier mirror in the corner {"when did he get that mirror? That wasn't something we had before; I'd have remembered."} when she saw him standing there. 

He wasn't turned away, not anymore, and she flushed to realize she didn't know at what point he had positioned himself to have her in his full view. The look of sheer satisfied appreciation on his face made her blush, and turn quickly to the mirror once again. No, this wasn't anything like that pale blue cotton robe, that was for certain!

She started to turn, to hurry back to get her housedress back on, when she felt his warmth behind her, his arms encircling her. She froze, a deer in the headlights, her eyes wide with incipent panic as she watched in the mirror. His breath was warm against her neck as he whispered, "beautiful! Just like I imagined! A China rose, all silky and smooth and giving off a sweet, intoxicating perfume like a rose on a hot day. Do you know how often I've pictured you, Mrs. C., in this robe, in a few other ways too?"

His hands were running slowly over the robe, pausing sometimes, but never stopping in one particular spot. Well, except when he gave that little chuckle when he realized she'd not taken off that Sears Roebuck brassiere or the J C Penny's panties before trying on the robe.

"Silk - have you ever worn real silk before, Mrs. C., next to your skin, I mean? That's how it should be worn, where you can feel every thread caressing you, cradling you," and her eyes widened and she let out a tiny whimper as his hands very carefully slipped inside that robe and undid the latchings on that stiffened and boned armor that all proper women wore as part of their penance for being female. 

A stray part of her mind, not that a lot of her mind was actually functioning anymore, noted that he had no difficulty with the task, even though this particular piece of underwear had proved challenging for her to undo, and impossible for her husband Howard to manage. 

Somehow the two figures in that mirror were strangers; she didn't recognize either of them, not really, not anymore. That wasn't Arthur, certainly. And, oh dear heavens, that CERTAINLY wasn't her, no matter what odd sensations she was sharing with that woman in the long silky Chinese robe.

She watched as hands moved under the material, thought she might just die if he actually touched her breasts, but he didn't, just pulled the brassiere away. She was not quite panting, but her breath was coming much faster, and she closed her eyes in relief when she heard the soft sound the garment made as it hit the floor. At least he had stopped there!

Then her eyes flew open as his hands returned to their undercover exploration, easing down her sides to her waist. One warm hand stayed there, the other drifted down over her abdomen, then lower, resting quietly above an area no one, not even herself, had ever lingered before except in passing. She gasped at the sensation, then a highpitched whimper came from her involuntarily as that warm hand stroked her mound, slid in between the juncture of her legs, reaching under and back to extend that knowing glide to the base of her fanny, then teasingly stroking up and down, even into the crevice between. 

"Soft, silky, beautiful! Just like the robe," he whispered, his eyes burning into hers as she watched in the mirror.

Soon the panties joined her bra on the floor, and she found herself seated on the bed. Quickly she turned over, curled up, hiding her face in the pillow, scolding herself frantically for not putting a stop to this. She was a middle-aged married woman! What on earth was she thinking, allowing this! Surely rolling away like this would tell him he had to stop; that was her signal for Howard, after all, and it always worked. 

Well, she had been married for a very long time; she know how a man liked a woman to be, liked things to be. Howard had very kindly explained all that right at the beginning, and he had assured her that was the way for almost every man. She could recite it in her sleep - after ten o'clock, lights off, (unless it was Saturday, then it was before eight o'clock in the morning, before she left to make a big weekend breakfast of pancakes and sausage and eggs before Howard went to play golf), the woman on her back, waiting for what came next. Not that she considered it unpleasant, particularly; it wasn't, and Howard was always considerate of her. She'd never found it particularly pleasant either, though; had certainly never felt the burning ache inside that she was feeling now! She was throbbing in the most unusual places, and she was uncomfortably aware that she was actually getting wet and sticky - {"how embarrassing! Well, at least HE doesn't know about that!"}

She swallowed again, waiting for the recriminations, or maybe just the disappointed "oh. Is it that time of the month?" that she got from Howard. Poor dear man! Still, it was obliging of Howard to at least pretend to believe that story, of how she was one of those women who had several mini-'times of the month' in addition to the main one. Well, maybe he really did believe it.

That low slow chuckle wasn't what she was expecting, nor the hands easing that robe off her shoulders - not much, but halfway down to her elbows anyway. Then the silky tie was undone, and the folds eased out from under her and the long skirt slowly, teasingly pulled to the base of her fanny.

"Beautiful," he breathed, and once again his hands started their caressing. His hands, then his lips, proceeded to explore her body, never lingering in one spot for long before moving to another. Not one inch of her skin was left untouched, and she writhed on the bed, at the same time wondering vaguely who on earth was making all those undignified sounds - the whimpers and gasps and, mixed throughout, the desperate panting.

Her eyes were still focused on the pillow, even when her head was thrown back in reaction to some especially intense sensation. She wasn't trying to think, only moving in response to his hands' urgings, now obediently raising her body enough so he could reach her breasts, stroking, squeezing, teasing the nipples til they were hard and pebbly. 

It was almost more than she could stand when he slipped one hand lower, moving that stroking, those knowing fingers to the molten core she had thought to keep hidden. If he was disgusted, she couldn't discern any hint in his manner; if anything, that exhaling of breath against her neck seemed to indicate quite the opposite. 

It was the added warmth penetrating through the silk that caused her to realize he was pressed against her so closely. It felt good, though very odd. She'd never had anyone pressed up against her back like this before, Howard always retreating to his own bed before sleep overtook either of them, and of course sex took place face to face, even if her eyes were closed more often than not.

She blinked at the sensation, trying to make sense of it, wondering why she didn't feel the leather of his jacket, his biking pants when it suddenly dawned on her! She wasn't feeling leather, not anymore; she was feeling skin - long hot lengths of bare skin, well sprinkled with hair along those strong arms, the strong thighs and legs. Arms, thighs and legs, and now his hands urging her up into more of a crouching position, his soft voice adding to the encouragement of his hands. 

Oh, those words, what he was saying, what he was promising! None of this could be happening! Maybe she'd fallen and hit her head, was hallucinating! She was Marion Cunningham, not some exotic character out of a naughty novel! He was Arthur Fonzarelli, her son's best friend, not some knowing and masterful seducer from the past century! It was mid-morning, the lights were on, and she was - oh, for heaven's sake - crouched, barely covered by a few folds of that creamy Chinese silk robe, in the middle of that small bed as if she were a lazy cat stretching her back! {"A cat in heat! Now I know what they mean by that! I never really did before!"} she gasped to herself.

When finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of touching and teasing, intensity building then being soothed away before building to a volcanic heat once again, she felt him center himself against her. {"For such a slender young man, I didn't quite expect . . .!"} she thought, in the brief seconds before all possibility of thought left her, where all that was left was the sensation of being filled, her swollen, throbbing walls being stretched as Howard never had even before the children were born. 

When she finally gave in to the ever-increasing whirlpool of sensation, screamed in completion, she thought to collapse on the bed, but found, inexplicably, he wasn't going to allow that. 

The words made no sense to her, that "again, Mrs. C. You can't be willing to stop with just one, not a woman like you!"

{"Stop with just one??! What on earth??!"} knowing she could count the number of times she'd even experienced one such episode, and even those nothing like what she'd just experienced. You just couldn't compare that gently-tingling feeling she sometimes got with Howard, and then only if she was very lucky and focused really, really hard. None of those could even be mentioned in the same breath as this soul-shattering, all consuming experience! And he thought she was capable of doing that again??!!

Somehow she found he was right, then and the next time as well. She was VERY sure he was wrong when he told her, seemingly between clenched teeth this time, "one last time, Mrs. C. At least for today. Once more, my silky lady, my China rose," but when she felt him surge against her, deep inside her, one last time, heard his groan of completion, she found that, yes, she DID have one last ounce to give, even though it left her sobbing into the pillow in exhaustion. 

She felt him withdraw, then felt the bed dip as he got up. She was too exhausted even to turn her head to follow his movements, to get her first glance at his unclothed body. The bed dipped once again as she felt him settle down beside her.

The Chinese silk robe was off the side of the bed by now, and his hand traced her sweat-drenched body lovingly with the hand towel he'd fetched from the bathroom, leaving only the silkiness behind.

The fan was going now, though she didn't know when he'd turned it on, and the slight breeze swept over her body, providing an additional caress. She relaxed into both sensations, barely hearing him whispering to her, as she fell into a deep sleep. Whispered stories about a gardener in a magical secret garden, where the sun shown down on the prized rare treasure of that garden, a silky beautifully perfumed China rose. Whispered of things she'd never heard of before, things that didn't seem possible. Things that would have shocked her before, but now seemed to beckon beyond any possibility of resisting that call; things that opened a fierce yearning, an equally-fierce determination to experience each and every one of those forbidden delights.

She would awaken to an empty apartment, clothes folded beside her on the bed. The Chinese silk robe was back in its usual place in the corner of the tiny closet, hung neatly on that padded hanger. Hurriedly she bathed, dressed, avoiding her image in the mirror until she realized she'd need to straighten her hair before she went back to the house. 

She stopped, struck by the image in the mirror. She was the same, yet different. Marion Cunningham was there, yes, the ever-familiar mother and wife, housekeeper, Sunday School teacher, pre-school volunteer. But now she could see something, someone else - a silky exotic China rose of a woman, smiling a knowing, mysterious smile that the Mona Lisa could only have envied.

And she returned to the house, started preparations for dinner, greeted Howard with a kiss on the cheek when he came in the door, happily asked Ritchie and Joanie about their day. And in the background of her mind she heard the echo of a soft voice promising things she had never imagined, experiences she had never dreamed could be. Things she would learn, joys she would share.

And when she sat down to once again go over the fabric samples for the redecorating she'd decided several months ago was well-overdue, she found herself moving away from the prim pin-stripes and safely-neutral beiges, away from the practical and easy-to-maintain fabrics. Now her eyes and her fingers lingered over the more lush, the more exotic offerings in those fabric and wallpaper sample books. In the end, though, she decided to go with a safer selection - perhaps not so plain as what she'd originally selected, but nothing like what she was tempted toward now. 

No, she'd decided. Her share of the exotic would be confined to that small apartment over the garage, and even there, just to that lovely Chinese silk robe hanging in that tiny closet. SHE would be the exotic treasure there, at least for as long as this strange adventure lasted. Maybe then, when it was over, maybe then she would redecorate in lush and vibrant, exotic and warm colors and designs, to remind her of this time. To remind her of the time when she herself WAS a silky China rose.

In the meantime, she intended to unfurl her petals, luxuriate in the devoted attentions of that gardener in that sheltered garden in the sunshine. Or, at least, by their tenant in that small apartment above the garage. 

"A rose by any other name . . ." she said to herself, nodding wisely.

"Did you say something, Marion?" Howard asked, glancing up from his newspaper.

"No, dear. Just wool-gathering. I'm considering putting in a small rose garden, back beside the garage, on the sunny side."

Howard Cunningham nodded absently, his mind already back on the sports scores, certainly not on his comfortable and accommodating spouse.

"Whatever you like, my dear; Grobman's Nursery probably has whatever you want. It would be something to keep you busy, anyway; maybe you could provide flowers for the church sometime."

"I'm thinking China roses," Marion offered with a quiet smile, that falling into the emptiness of the air, Howard already having long forgotten the conversation, if you wanted to call it that.

And a rose garden there was, though a very small one, and if ever Howard looked around and wondered where Marion had gotten to, he'd shrug and just shake his head indulgently. {"Probably off playing with the roses again. Oh well, everyone needs a hobby, I suppose."}

As far as Ritchie and Joanie were concerned, their mom had taken up rose gardening, for some weird reason, and neither of them were interested enough to do more than take a casual look over that short wall a time or two. 

"At least it isn't something silly or embarrassing, like Jennifer's mom thinking she should run for City Council!" Joanie remarked to her brother. 

Ritchie shuddered, "mom may be dull and boring in a lot of ways, but at least she'd never embarrass us like THAT! Or like Greg's mom, dressing in those slinky clothes that even one of the girls that hang out on the corner over on Jefferson Street wouldn't dream of wearing!"

And in that small apartment above the garage, a silky China rose smiled in sensuous promise, swayed over the devoted gardener stretched out on the cool cotton sheets beneath her, her silky petals caressing him, her subtle perfume delighting his senses. Soon they would send their joint cries of praise to the skies above, for the first - but certainly not the last - time of this particular day. 

Well, as Howard Cunningham had noted, everyone needs a hobby, and gardening was such a pleasurable one.

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? Not a fandom I usually write for, certainly; in fact, I haven't thought about the show in years. But what the muse delivers, I put down into words.


End file.
